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ATRIOTIC 



AND OTHER 



POEMS 



BY CLAUD BAIRD 




^llllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllillllllllilllllllllil 



PATRIOTIC 

AND OTHER 

POEMS 



By Claud Baird 



COPYRIGHT 1917 BY CLAUD BAIRD 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
ALVA, OKLAHOMA 






DEDICATION 



In presenting this, my first volume to 

the public, I cannot do better than 

dedicate it to one who has given me 

my greatest inspiration — 

MY MOTHER. 



AUG 24 1917 

©CIA -17 7 75 



ODE TO MY MOTHER 



Had I the voice of the robin, 
Or the sweet toned nightingale, 
I'd sing the praise of a woman — 
A woman small and frail. 

In melodious song I'd utter 
Her deeds so noble and true, 
Till the very stars would listen 
Throughout the heavenly blue. 

I know the angels would answer 
And sing the chorus clear, 
And the birds would join in singing 
Of Mother's love and cheer. 



TO THE PILGRIM BARD 



Sweet Singer of the western plains ! 

I come not to disturb thy blissful melodies 

With harsh and untried meter. 

Thy fame is great, thy songs have long since 

Been sung by thy fellow pioneers. 

Other far-away fields have heard thy voice 

And joined in the glad refrain. 

Children once, but now to manhood grown, 

Have learned to love thee and cherish 

The utterances of thy rhythmic pen. 

(3) 



I LOVE MY COUNTRY MORE AND MORE 



On the brink, I've stood and watched the tide 

Of the rolling Pacific, far and wide, 

'Twas beauty itself — this ocean view — 

It filled me, yes thrilled me through and through. 

I closed my eyes from the beauteous sight 

And felt an inmost soul delight; 

This was my Country's shore. 

Upon the Rockies' highest peaks 
I've heard the mighty eagle-shrieks, 
The frigid cliffs were white with snow. 
T'was beauty grand, and far below 
I heard the torrent cataract roar. 
These all thrilled me o'er and o'er. 
I love the lofty peaks. 

Through endless plains I've found my way, 

And looked abroad at break of day 

To see the countless herds that grazed — 

I could but look, I stood and gazed, 

T'was riches indeed, all this did spell ; 

It made my heart in rapture swell, 

In praise of the Western Plains. 

By myriad fields of growing grain 
I've made my way on rumbling train. 
How grand the sight seemed unto me 
As waving fields swept on so free ! 
And as I watched the glorious sight 
I could but feel with keen delight 
Our land is blessed indeed. 

(4) 



Far in the Southland's fields of white 
My eyes have seen its splendor bright. 
The dusky toilers filled the breeze 
With lulling music like the seas. 
The humming mills and factories there 
But made the Southern land more fair. 
United are our states. 

Far down into the deeper mines 

I've trod the ever spreading lines 

Of tunneled caves and cove-like rooms, 

Where ores are scooped from out their tombs, 

And sent abroad to upper air 

To feed the glowing furnace there — 

Wealth of my Native land. 

Through forests broad, of oak and pine, 
I've viewed the shrub and clustering vine 
That sought in vain the higher air — 
Their fragrant blossoms were so rare — 
While from their branches onward rolled 
The sweetest music uncontrolled 
I love the Forest Cheer. 

As thus I trod my Country o'er, 

I've learned to love it more and more, 

The North, the South, I love them both. 

Of East and West, I am not loath 

To sing in song their endless praise ; 

And thus I give my humble lays 

To thee, My Noble Land. 

(5) 



LIBERTY'S COLORS 



Liberty, the dream of the ages, 

Liberty of life and love, 

Fraternity and kindred blessings 

Sent from the God above, 

Are found in three great nations 

And spelled in colors three, 

And they are colors you love — 

The colors most dear to me. 

First is our own "Old Glory," 

Then the "Tri-color" of France, 

Then "Jack of the British Union ;" 

All we know at a glance. 

These are the noble standards ; 

These are the nations true 

That blazon upon their banners 

The red, the white, and the blue. 

June 1st, 1917. 
(6) 



'ANSWERING THE CALL." 



(Written in Memory of Our Soldier Boys) 

Again the voice of Freedom resounds her trumpet call, 
And warns our mighty nation to sacrifice her all 
In one more bloody struggle, in one more warry hell, 
That we may save the country, for which our fathers fell. 

They say that we are sluggards, we care for naught but 

gold. 
Our liberties and valor for industry are sold. 
They say our golden eagle has lost his beak and claws ; 
They fear no more his talons, his shrieks, and mighty 

jaws. 

Alas, the boasts are idle, the world will soon have known, 
The bird was only nesting, the young have fully grown, 
And they have fled the boundaries of seas and raging tide. 
'Tis thus the voice of Freedom thrills every ocean side. 

Rejoice once more,dear people,the Spirit of Seventy-five, 
Which burned in the hearts of Washington and Greene is 

yet alive. 
Rejoice again dear comrades, the boys of Sixty-one 
Have lived to tell their story to every mother's son. 

The boys are now responding throughout the Western 

World, 
Nor will their steps turn homeward, till monarch's 

thrones are hurled 
Into the depths of ocean, never to rise again, — 
God give us strength to do it, that a man may be a man. 

Alva, Okla., May 4, 1917. 

(7) 



THE GREATER HELL 



(Sherman's version of war is no longer fitting.) 
The bellowing quakes of fiery lakes 
No longer startle men, 
The modern world has now been hurled 
Into a demon's den. 
Red lakes of blood and grimy mud 
Are seen on every hand. 
The cannon's roar by vale and moor 
By sea and ocean strand 
Roll on by night, where lurid light 
Streams o'er the field of death, 
And gassy clouds, like new-made shrouds, 
Await the dying breath. 
While from the deep, the monsters leap 
To belch their livid fire, 
And from the sky, the birdman high 
Swoops down with deadly ire. 
The widow's sigh, the orphan's cry — 
O, such a hopeless wail ! 
While wounded moan and dying groan 
Till death has made them pale, 
Thus he who said that battles red 
Were likened unto hell, 
Has been as mild as a timid child — 
A stronger word must tell. 
(8) 



THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER 



(Written June 30, 1917) 

Three centuries have passed since the Mayflower 

Sailed west from the British Isles, 

Three centuries, alas ! are nearing 

Since she moored by the Western wilds. 

She met the storm and the current, 

She plowed white the ocean foam 

Till it seemed the roaring billows 

Would bear her wanderers home. 

It seemed that earth and heaven 

Were bearing her on to fate, 

That never again would she anchor 

Nor sight the Channel state. 

But He, the heavenly ruler 

Of men and nations wide 

Had made her his chosen vessel 

And bid her laugh at the tide. 

And though the storms swept round her 

And waves ran mountain high, 

One God, the God above her, 

Decreed she should not die. 

Though weeks, and weeks, she wandered 

On seas of trackless green, 

Still onward, westward, onward, 

Her mast was wont to lean 

Until one joyous morning 

She sighted a rock-bound shore, 

And here she stowed her burden 

On the wild and wind-swept moor. 

It was here the seed was planted — 

The seed of Liberty's tree — 

And the plant was blessed with vigor, 

(9) 



With a faith to live and be. 

The wild New England blizzards 

In the young tree's branches groaned 

And the chilling wail of the Atlantic 

In her anguish sighed and moaned. 

While the icy spray swept skyward 

In a fog of mist-swept light 

Till all the rock-bound region 

Was robed in frigid white. 

Thus like the wind-tossed Mayflower, 

Our first born ship of state, 

Liberty kept her vigor — 

Her form grew tall and straight. 

The seasons came and scampered 

Until one autumn found 

The Tree had borne its fruitage — 

The seed was scattered round. 

Some by the wind swept westward, 

Some fell in the ocean spray, 

And all the coast and inland 

Was seeded for miles away. 

Then Liberty spread her seedlings 

From Maine to the Spanish South, 

From Atlantic to the Highlands 

And every river's mouth. 

Then came the clash of Lexington, 

Followed by Bunker Hill, 

A few more years of struggle 

And the British guns were still. 

Then Liberty leaped the mountains 

Broad valleys and endless plains, 

Nor halted till the rolling Pacific 

Gave forth her sweet refrains. 

And since, in the frozen Arctic 

And far-off ocean isles, 

The Liberty Tree has flourished 

(10) 



On these, the Goddess smiles. 
Years have now rolled onward 
Till forests great have grown. 
From these the rebuilt Mayflower 
Shall bear her fruitage home, 
And many more great Mayflowers 
Built on modern lines, 
Will soon be sailing eastward 
In spite of subs and mines ; 
And these will feed the legions 
Of democratic men, 
Who hail from farthest regions 
To storm the Kaiser's den. 
And these will bring the freedom, 
And these will give new life 
To all the Allied Nations 
And thus will end the strife. 
And thus the voice of freedom 
Will ring thru all the earth 
Till every land and language 
Will praise the Second Birth. 
And thus the good old Mayflower, 
The grand old ship of state, 
Will ring through all the ages 
As greatest of the great. 



(ID 



AMERICA'S GIFT 



Land of Lincoln and Washington ! 

Land of heroes and heroic women 

As your noble and illustrious past 

Flashes upon the screen of vision 

I see in never ending line, men, women, 

And mere children whose pulses beat 

With the throb of the purest American heart. 

All these we love and praise from the depths 

Of a love thrilled with patriotic fervor. 

You, our noble ancestors, have made America, 
The Land of The West ; you have given the world 
The Gem of the ages. But yet methinks 
In all your giving, you have not touched 
The greater riches of the American storehouse. 
America is young. So young in fact that she appears 
But a mere infant compared with the nations 
Of the older world. Thus as a growing child, 
Our Country has been receiving and storing 
In that great knowledge chamber the culture and science 
Of the past ages. Yet, in spite of our tender years, 
In spite of the fact that we are little more than a race 
Of pioneers, we have given mankind many of his 
Noblest possessions. Chief among these are the steam- 
ship, 
The telegraph, the telephone, the electric light, 
The aeroplane, the submarine and, last and greatest, 
The American ideal of government. True it is, in art 
And literature, we have produced little that 
Can be given a high rank, judged by the standard 
Of the Old World. But art cannot be developed 
In the workshop or behind the plow, it requires leisure, 
And it must have a leisure element to encourage 
Its production. This Europe has had and, may I add, 
As result of this merrymaking and aristocratic class, 

(12) 



The world is to-day plunged into the most horrible 
Slaughter known to mankind. America will have artists 
And poets of the highest class, but these will appear 
Only when the social fabric of mankind has been 
Remolded, and the grimy path of the Underworld 
Has been paved with the blocks of human brotherhood. 
Again, I say, we have given much to the world 
In spite of our infant years. Thousands of American 
Missionaries have spread the doctrine of true faith 
And modern learning throughout the darkest recesses 
Of the savage world. Fleets of food and raiment 
Have been sent to famine stricken and devastated por- 
tions 
Of the earth. What country, I ask, has given such gifts 
As the American nation? America has given to the world 
The most modern, and the most practicable, of govern- 
ments, 
This truth is evidenced by the fact that more than 
A score of nations have adopted our constitutional 
Form of government during the last century. 
China, the mother of nations, is our latest follower 
And who can conjecture the future of an 
Americanized China? Russia is undergoing 
The last travail of the monarchial yoke. 
With an efficient American embassy at Petrograd 
We firmly believe that New Russia will 
Be thoroughly imbued with the spirit of 
American Democracy. 

They tell us we have need for great reforms, 
And so we have ; they tell us we must eliminate 
Many of our social evils and so we must. 
My faith in the American people is such that 
I firmly believe we will meet the issues 
And meet them squarely. I truly believe 
That America will be the first of modern nations 
To write Prohibition into their National 

(13) 



Constitution, and this will occur in the very near future. 
America must and will meet her issues. 

These are some of the achievments of our 
United States. These are some of the glories 
Of her past endeavors, and yet we have but touched 
The spark to the conductor of our energies. 
The world will soon throb from the current 
Produced from the American dynamo. Then will 
The world sing the praise of these United States 
And her gifts to mankind. 

O beautiful Land! O western Land! 
The land of the Pioneer! 
The world will praise in songs and lays 
And ever hold thee dear. 

Thy gifts are the gifts of a better Land, 
And earth will be more fair 
When empire's crown is tumbled down 
And Liberty's form is there. 

Alva, Oklahoma, July 21, 1917. 



THE KAISER'S NIGHTMARE 



Wilhelm :— 

Von Hindenburg, vot ish it 
I see upon der strand? 

Von H. :— 

It looks the western legions 
Hab come to lend a hand. 

Wilhelm :— 

Mine Gott, vot meanest thou, 
To let der Yankees cross? 
Don't you know my submarines 

(14) 



Should all the ocean boss? 

Mine submarines ! Mine submarines ! 

Mine heart is full mit grief! 

Vy stay you by der ocean bed 

Und send us nicht relief? 

Mine Zeppelins ! O, mine Zeppelins ! 

You come back home mit fear! 

Und sleep mitin mine Berlin town 

Und drink mine lager beer. 

Vot vill I do? Vot must I do? 

I don't know who to blame. 

Der Rhine is full mit submarines 

Dot nicht vill hunt der game. 

Der Russians feel dey want more fight, 

I vip dem vunce you see, 

Dot Root, he feed dem pepper sauce, 

Und sick der bears on me. 

Mine eyes are dim, I cannot see, 

Mine ears mit cannons roar. 

Mine veary beoples look to me — 

I cannot give dem more. 

O, how I damn dot Uncle Sam ! 

I hate dot Yankee cheer! 

He slim mine ranks mit tefel tanks, 

Und fill mine men mit fear. 

Und night by last I dreamed von dram, 

I thought mine empire fell. 

Mine Gott vas mit der Yankee host — 

Der Kaiser vas in hell. 



(15) 



AFTER THE WAR, WHAT THEN? 



After the war, what then? What then? 
Will the world return to peace again? 

Will monarch's crown and war-lord's sway 
Return the earth to bloody fray? 

Nay ! Nay ! I pray thee, Lord above, 
Send down to men thy spirit love. 

We do believe when peace has come 
We'll hear no more the fife and drum ; 

The battle cry of peace will sound 
Till martial music will be drowned. 

Foe and friend, when peace is made 
Will spring from trenches, not arrayed 

To cut to earth their fellow man, 
But clasp a hand as brother can. 

The nations now are sick of war, 
But peace will reign on earth no more 

Till he the maker of wars, the chief, 
Has been suppressed; and sweet relief 

From future war, may then be found 
And all the nations cluster 'round 

A world-wide court, with world-wide power- 
Then will war-mad monarchs cower 

And seek no more to plunge mankind 
Into a fray so madly blind. 

(16) 



NORTHWESTERN COLORS 



(Northwestern Normal School, Alva, Okla.) 

Thy colors are clipped from 'the streamers 
Of time on its infinite flight, 
Thy red from the splendor of morning, 
Thy black from the rayless night. 

Then time in her streams unceasing 
Are found in thy colors true — 
May time in all its mercy 
Deal gently unto you. 

May your growth be strong arid steady ; 
May you stand for the clean and fair ; 
May you set the highest standard 
Of a college anywhere. 

May you stand in the far-off future 
As a bulwark of our state, 
When men of highest calling 
Can truly call thee great. 



(17) 



FRIENDSHIP'S BLOSSOM 



One day by friendship's cozy bower 
There met my gaze, a lovely flower, 
Such perfume gave the blossom fair 
I knew it was a beauty rare. 

Its silken petals, dipped in dew, 
Reflected back the diamond's hue, 
And seemed to smile and bid me stay 
To while an hour or two away. 

I seated myself on the mossy bank 
And all the beauties of nature drank ; 
The songsters warbled their notes o'erhead 
And the brook made music as it sped. 

The sunbeams spotted the mossy green — 
'Twas the grandest picture in nature seen ; 
And there we chatted — the flower and I — 
Till the sun had sunk in the western sky. 

'Twas then I bid my friend adieu 
And found my life had vigor new ; 
A new song cheers my life each day, 
And bids me oft to the woodland stray. 



(18) 



THE REAL CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 



Nineteen centuries and more ago 
A babe was born, as you well know, 
That brought the Wise Men from afar — 
Their guide was but a glowing star. 

The Shepherds, too, the glad news found 
While sleeping herds were clustered 'round. 
Then there were called that night to see, 
The great, the wise, and shepherds free. 

Thus man was blessed by a Savior's birth 
And given a promise of all the earth ; 
If they but love their God's own Son 
He'd bless them each and every one. 
The star that led the Wise Men there 
Is shining still in the heavens fair, 
Nor shall it wane, this morning star, 
Tho earth be drenched in hellish war. 
Some day the dreams of conflict will 
Be crushed in God's slow grinding mill ; 
The light of heaven will lead mankind 
And wars will then no makers find. 
May screaming shells on Christmas night 
Be hushed secure, and God's own light 
Shine down upon the Holy Land 
Where slept the noble shepherd band. 
May "peace on earth" and good will, too, 
Be spread and lived the whole world through ; 
That strifes may cease and wars may end 
And helping hands to others lend. 
When this has come, we then shall see 
Once more the man of Galilee — 
Earth and heaven will be so near 
That death and grave will bring no fear. 

December 22, 1916. 

(19) 



WINTER JINGLES 



O'er hill and dale and all around 
The tiny flakes come dancing down ; 
They blanket all quite snug and tight 
With fleecy coat, so warm and light, 
That tiny plants, and warbling quail 
Are tucked at last from frosty gale. 

The rugged hill, no longer found, 
Is smoothed into a rolling mound 
Around the brow of which does stand 
The living landmarks of the land. 
Their sighing boughs so long from bloom 
Seem spectred ghosts, from whitened tomb ; 
With heavy moans they seem to long 
For summer days and sparrow's song. 

The songsters fled the winter's night 
To summer homes of sunshine bright ; 
But snowbird and his friends, a few, 
Now flit about in frosty dew. 
Nor seem to have the slightest care 
If fields are white and meadows bare, 
And as the day sinks into night 
They creep into their house of white. 

The coyote on his nightly round 
Calls from his bed the sleeping hound ; 
And all night through from glen and dale 
Their voices mingle with the gale, 
Until at dawn the master's horn 
Calls home the canine, sad and worn. 

The morning lightens into day 
While snow clouds drift and pass away ; 
The sun shines once again on earth 
And life and joy are given birth. 

(20) 



The chores of morning soon are done 
And then there's laughter, joy and fun. 

For now the sleighbell's jingling sound 

Is heard all through the country 'round, 

And happy faces in the sleigh 

Are blooming like the flowers of May. 

These, all these, does winter bring 

Yet somehow still we long for spring. 



THE LOST HOME" 



This poem pictures the loss of Prof. Frank Wyatt's 
home at Alva, Okla., during the winter of 1911-12. 

Last eve, while gently musing 
In my cozy study room, 
Came wailing on the night-wind 
The fire-bell's dreadful doom. 

Then peering from my window 

To the icy streets below, 

I saw the noble fireboys 

As they struggled for the glow. 

Twas an ugly night in winter, 
And the noble horses found 
Their path a hellish torture 
As they struggled up the mound. 

They reached the scene at hill-top 
Amid the darkened snow — 
The noble lads then met her, 
Fanned by northwind's blow. 

In an effort superhuman 
They struggled there to meet 
The fiery red destruction, 
As it sent its furnace heat. 

(21) 



At last the demons clutch her, 
The gods of fire have won, 
The cherished home has vanished 
As mists are swept at dawn. 

Like cozy homes, the mortal 
May dwell for many a year 
With pleasant faces 'round us 
Without a care or fear; 

Or again the dark death angel 
May sound our parting doom, 
Taking loved ones from us — 
Their ashes to the tomb. 



CHARACTER BUILDERS 



We each today are builders 

On a structure good or bad, 

Which may bring joy and comfort 

Or may other hearts make sad. 

If the model has been founded 

On a goodly sort of plan, 

The foundation will be firmness 

In a love for God and Man. 

Our walls must be laid firmly 
Of brick and mortar stout ; 
They must embrace large windows, 
Giving sunshine in and out. 
The roof and ceiling likewise 
Must be strong to stand the strain, 
For the storms of life are many 
That beat 'round about the brain. 
The floors and inside finish 
Of course must, too, be good 
Better use a noble concrete 
Than a shabby sort of wood. 

(22) 



Then there must be smiling faces 
In the pictures on the wall, 
And a cheer to those about us 
From the attic to the hall. 
Yes, too ! make all doors truly 
That they fit the casement well, 
Thus may enter summer breezes 
And we'll shun the winter's spell. 

Now the builder who is building 
On a structure not so stout, 
Can hope for nothing better 
Than misery in and out ; 
And the builder who is building 
On the rigid sort of plan, 
Will be a builder for the future 
And a friend to God and Man. 



MY FOREST HOME 



Written while a bit homesick for 
my old home in Linn Co., Kansas. 

I'm dreaming tonight 
Of a far-off land. 
I'm dreaming, yes dreaming 
Of a forest grand; 
Where many an hour 
I've whiled in the shade 
Of the towering kings 
Of the forest glade. 

Great kings of the forest 
That tower so high, 
I love you, I love you, 
Nor will I deny 

(23) 



That dearer to me 
Is your towering green, 
Than all of the riches 
I've handled or seen. 

Your silver-faced streams 
And gurgling young brooks, 
You filled me, yes thrilled me 
When freed from my books. 
Those mossy green beds 
Gave pleasure to me, 
As I lay and I watched 
The fishes so wee. 

The time is now nearing 
Once more I must roam, 
But never, no, never, 
To my old forest home. 
Tis the home of the stranger ; 
My loved ones have fled 
To the land of the prairie, 
And some to the dead. 



WHY HOLD THY SECRETS? 



Addressed to the Oklahoma Prairies 

Ye sodden prairies, why slumber on, 

And hide thy secrets from the pale-faced man? 

It is he who has given many a drop of his life- 

Blood to rid thee of the savage warrior and the 

Mighty herds of bison that ruthlessly trod upon thy 

bosom. 
Thou alone hold hold the secrets of long ago. 
Speak ! I pray thee, and tell us whence came the wild 

red-man 
To wake thy stillness with his wild halloo! 
Tell us of the daring Coronado who passed 

(24) 



Over thy vast expanse to the endless plains beyond. 

Tell us of the fabled Quiveria, which now lies revealed 

In thy bountiful harvests. 

We cannot but recall that thy sodden breast 

Fed the red man's cattle, all of which 

Have passed to the "Great Beyond" like the 

Wild red man himself. 

Canst thou not speak to us through the breezes 

That fan thy face, and tell us why thou hast called 

The race of white to replace the one of red? 

Dost thou, O Prairies ! wish to teach man 

The great lesson of secrecy which has not 

Been learned by the better half of the race? 

If thy silence is so great a teacher 

What then, may we learn from a study 

Of the inmost recesses of thy great self? 

Great indeed are the gifts thou hast given us ! 

But yet we would receive one privilege more : 

We would that when our mortal race is run, 

Thou wouldst permit our mortal bodies 

Being laid within thy sheltered breast, 

Where they may resolve back and become a part 

Of thine own great self. 

TRADING POST, KANSAS, AND HERFAMOUS MILL 



The weeds grow rank on the river's bank, 

On the bank of the Marais des Cygnes, 

Where the famous mill, now hushed and still 

Never again to be seen ; 

Once rumbled away, by night and day 

In her effort to feed the throng 

Of brave pioneers, with their horses and steers, 

As they came on their journeys long. 

Through forest wide, on every side 
The men of the border came ; 

(25) 



They swapped their wheat, their corn and meat 

For flour or money — the same. 

The armies of Blue, and Gray-coats, too. 

Stopped at the self same mill ; 

They loaded their train with flour and grain 

And ate and drank their fill. 

The town itself, on a higher shelf 

Than the river's brink once stood ; 

The houses were small, with chimneys tall, 

Yet built of finest wood. 

But now the town has tumbled down 

Like the mill by the riverside, 

And today the bats, the owls, and rats 

Romp in homes of pride. 

Brave old mill, forever still, 

And town of towns no more, 

Thy fame is great through Kansas State 

As in thy days of yore. 

And remembered well are the men who fell 

For Freedom's holy name, 

But the Guerilla bands from Border Lands 

Will always be her shame. 

The story, then, of the Free State men, 

Who fell in the awful ravine, 

Has been well told in letters bold 

Of the poem, "Les Marais des Cygnes."* 

The wholesale slaughter, where blood like water 

Once oozed in streamlets down 

Was on the farm, with its woodland charm — 

The home of Old John Brown. 

The weeds grow rank, on the river's bank, 
On the banks of the Marais des Cygnes, 
Where the famous mill, now hushed and still 
Never again to be seen ; 



*"Les Marais des Cygnes" was written by J. G. Whittid 

(26) 



Once rumbled away, by night and day 

In her effort to feed the throng 

Of brave pioneers, with their horses and steers, 

As they came on their journeys long. 

SUNSET AT THE GOLDEN GATE 



(As seen by the writer while at the Cliff House) 
As the sun was sinking in the west 
'Mid billowy folds of ocean breast, 
We stood, we gazed on misty sky, 
Then down on waters rolling high. 
Within our souls emotions rose 
As wave, on wave, seemed dealing blows 
On shore and rock — they rose so grand 
Then died away as men of land ; 
While newer, stronger, waves so great, 
Rolled on toward the Golden Gate. 

The sea-gulls screamed far out at sea 
And skimmed the waves so gracefully, 
Then 'rose again, and circled 'round 
To newer sports, their mates had found. 
On the rugged rocks the sleeping seals 
Were startled not by ploughing keels. 
Once more we gazed far out at sea 
A mighty ship, with wireless tree, 
Plows white the foam, in path as straight 
As the falcon's flight to the Golden Gate. 

ODE TO SALT LAKE CITY 



Beautiful city by the dying sea, 

Thou art so wholesome, so light and so free. 

Thy walks art majestic, so broad and so long; 

Thy temples and mansions art sturdy and strong. 

Fairest of fairest, of cities thou art — 

Won me, you've won me, my soul and my heart. 

(27) 



DON'T YOU REMEMBER? 



Don't you remember, and will you forget 

When you were a kiddie, your mamma's sweet pet? 

Such locks that you wore and curlies galore 

And looked like a dolly that comes from the store! 

You wore girl's frocks, and feminine socks 

And sat on the floor and played with the blocks. 

Don't you remember one day to your joy 
That you were a laddie, your daddy's big boy? 
You belted your trousers and started to school, 
And the very first morning you kicked like a mule ; 
The big girls kissed you and held you tight 
And the boys then laughed with all their might. 

Don't you remember the pretty Miss Kate 

Who sat 'cross the aisle and wrote on her slate : 

"I like you better than freckle-faced Joe, 

The reason I like you, you're nicer, you know"? 

And you gave her sweet cookies and candy and gum — 

She smiled at Fred Barker and you acted glum. 

Don't you remember your very first call? 
You shook and you trembled because you were tall ; 
And when the door opened you had a surprise, 
Her mother looked on you with storm in her eyes 
And then her heart softened and you and sweet Kate 
Went to the circus and thought it was great. 

Don't you remember the night you proposed? 

Your team stopped walking, they stood and they dozed ; 

How your heart fluttered, it rose and it fell 

And beat on your ribs like the clang of a bell ; 

How your voice stuttered and sputtered until 

Katie gave answer : "Of course I'm yours, Bill." 

(28) 



A DISJOINTED WEDDING 

This wedding actually occurred at Eureka Springs, 
Arkansas, several years ago. The dynamo at the 
light plant failed during the ceremony. 

A maiden of forty summers 

And a man with a young bald pate, 

Were wed on summer's evening — 

The hour was really late. 

The church was greatly crowded — 

It was public — say, do you know, 

For a bunch of rollicking youngsters 

It swamped a ten cent show? 

The maid, she was not embarrassed, 
To her it seemed but a bore, 
For this, her would-be hubby 
Was only number four. 
But surely they both were suited 
Or single awhile they'd stayed, 
But hasten I must the story 
Before my thoughts have strayed. 

The parson had well proceeded 

And gotten to the critical point, 

When all about was darkness, 

Then things got out of joint. 

The bridesmaid screamed with horror 

And swore that never again would she 

Be found at another wedding 

In such a company. 

The parson, amid confusion, 
Demanded forth a light, 
And then the crowd grew noisy, 
It reached an awful height. 
Twas then the dingy lantern 

(29) 



Was found on the belfry stairs, 
Which lighted the ceremony 
And relieved the parson's cares. 
The crowd was filled with pleasure, 
And superstitions fled 
Of spooks and darkened weddings 
Where Satan's footsteps tread. 
And today they all are happy — 
And happy it seems for life — 
The former got his money, 
The husband, such a wife. 



SHOP TALK 



(With due apology to less talkative barbers) 
Chatter away, chatter away 
From the early morn till close of day. 
The barber stands by his swivel chair 
And talks, and combs and cuts the hair. 
So strange it seems that one small head 
Should hold such news of the living and dead'- 
He can tell you how the town went dry; 
He can tell you when and tell you why. 
He knows quite all the back yard rows 
Over the chickens, or about the the cows. 
He knows just why the mayor was beat, 
And the cost to a cent of paving the street. 
He knows why Congress rejected the bill 
And just to a day the parson was ill. 
He can quote the law on the killing of game 
And knows each fish by his family name. 
He rejects the story of Jonah and the whale 
And then proceeds with a fisher tale ; 
But just as his boat by the fish upset, 
The grocer came in to collect a debt. 
The barber forgot his sermon and text 
And ended his theme by calling, "Next." 

(30) 



RENFREW'S RECORD PRINT 
ALVA, OKLAHOMA. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

■mm 

018 604 561 



* 



